I Walk

How do you get around?

I walk.

I put on lipstick and a scarf on my head. I leave the house, and I walk.

I walk to the market. I walk to church. I walk to the doctor’s. I walk to the butcher. I walk to the dentist. I walk to the optometrist. I walk to the pharmacy. I walk to the café. I walk.

Sometimes I walk to the bus. I used to walk to the streetcar, but these have all been replaced by buses.

Now that I am old, I feel stiff sometimes. I see old men and other old women with canes, hunched over. I polish my shoes, I comb my hair, I put on earrings, a scarf and a sweater. I straighten my body and push my shoulders back. I make myself be completely perpendicular to the sidewalk. Then I walk.

I may only walk around the block, but I do so standing as erect as I can.

Sometimes my legs ache. My ankles swell. My varicose veins throb. I put on my elastic stockings. I put on my comfortable shoes. I walk.

When I sit, I put my feet up. I sip a Manhattan. I smoke a cigarette. I relax.

The next morning after coffee, after breakfast, after making the bed and sweeping the floor, I walk.

I am older now. My sisters and brother are gone. I am the only one left. The stairs are hard for me. My daughter and I have a plan.

“When Leta moved in with us, I remember, she could walk.”

Every day I can, I put on my housecoat. I put on my elastic stockings. I put on my sweater. I walk around the facility. I walk outside through the garden. I sit on a bench and enjoy the sunshine on my face. My daughter, my son, my granddaughter—someone—arrives in an automobile. I am dressed. I walk to the car. I walk from the car into the office, into the restaurant, into the shop, into the church, into the house. Then I walk back to the car, and back to my room. I take off my shoes. I undress. I sit on my bed. I lie in my bed. I put my feet up. They are sore, and I am tired.

I even am older now. My daughter is gone. I don’t go out as much. Sometimes I am weary. My body aches. My energy has left me. Sometimes my eyes won’t open and breathing happens slowly and loudly. I use a walker. I walk to a chair in the lounge. I fall asleep. I wake. I take my pills. I walk to the dining room. I walk to the chapel. I move so slowly.

Now I am stronger. I feel better. I put on my housecoat. I put on my sweater. I leave the walker behind. I take a long walk down and around the corridors. I sit in the lounge. My great-granddaughter and great-grandson visit me. I walk with them into the dining room for privacy. We sit at a table. We talk. I walk them to the front door. I watch them walk to their car. Then I sit for a good long while. Someone brings my walker. I walk to the dining room. I eat my supper. I walk to my room and get into bed. I sleep.

I am as old as I ever want to be. I am skin and bones. I hurt. My eyes see dimly. I lie in bed most days. I don’t stand. I slide from bed to wheelchair. Someone assists me. I think of my sisters, my brother, my daughter.

I no longer walk. I ride.